


White Noise

by leporicide (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Supernatural - Freeform, Topic of Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/leporicide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s something grotesque about loving the Reaper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldcoin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldcoin/gifts).



> An AU I've been diddling around with, with Cale~  
> More information on the AU can be found leporicide.tumblr.com/tagged/reaper!au

_“Beauty is not a very well-balanced thing; it has to be disturbing and uncomfortable.”_

— Christian Lacroix

I.

The first time you see him, he’s standing next to your mother, his eyes smoldering.  You can taste fire on your lips and your spit turns to tar and there’s something not quite right about a six year old boy seeing things that aren’t there.  That’s what your mother tells you, anyway.

But you swear you see him and she swears you don’t and in the end, the world ends with whispers of lies from the boy who cries wolf.

The cancer is sudden the doctor says, but you know better and when you see that man again, with indigo eyes and crooked teeth, you give him a small wave.  He waves back and at six years old, you make friends with the grim reaper.

II.

Twelve is an important age for you.  It’s around the time when you start to realize all your friends are morons.  The revelation comes heavy, like the word of Christ, and it burns holes in your skin.  You see the man everywhere now.  And you’re smart enough, been far too smart for twelve, to know what he is, why he follows who he does.

Sometimes you find yourself talking aloud, the faint echo of the bathroom walls as you sit in the shower, cowering over yourself as an array of cold caresses your back.  You tell him about your day, how you’ve been coping with school, how there’s all this  _white noise_  that no one seems to pick up on.  You tell him your troubles, the cost of school fees, the way your friend’s cat just keeled over and died, the fear you feel when you notice him following your brother around.

The last one is harder to mention and your voice cracks all weird but the white tiles seem to ring in acknowledgement and the water seems to feel just a bit warmer and for a second, the softness of the world holds you in a silence you haven’t experienced since you were six years old and shouting at your mother to stay away from strangers.

It’s a blessing, you think.  So is death, you reply.

III.

You can’t pinpoint the moment is happens, but you know he’s there in the room.  He’s there when you wake up in cold sweat and there’s an indent in the sheet beside you, yet they feel so cold, know he’s there when there’s a weight on you that you can’t quite push away.

You can’t see him all the time, but when you do, he shoots you this cute little wave with such long delicate fingers and harsh skin and despite thinking that the noise is unbearable when you see him, you wave back, just as warmly.

You think you might be in love at seventeen with something that’s so otherworldly, it is as if standing on the twilight cracks of death and limbo and the only thing holding you here is the fact that you need to breathe.

IV.

He doesn’t talk but you can kiss him sometimes.  He comes to you, at small intervals at first, soon to every once a week, and now every night.  He’s cold to touch, his face is littered with a mask of paint that you can never wipe off.  His teeth are monstrous and his eyes are hollow with something that’s curled up and rotten within itself years ago.   Sometimes, you feel that if you look hard enough into those eyes, you can see your reflection.

V.

You want to throw up.

VI.

When you kiss, it’s slow and sweet and surreal and horrible.  His lips are a ghost on your chapped ones and his tongue weighs heavy in your mouth and there’s something morbid about it all but you’re twenty-two and you’ve waited for so long.

He tastes like the edge of the sea, where the waves crash the land and the rocks are pressed to make diamonds.  That’s what he feels like to you, you think.  Diamonds.  Harsh and beautiful and you own the most valuable ones.  You’re a regular Indiana Jones.

His hair tickles your nose but you don’t mind.  You find yourself without the energy to mind much of anything anymore.

VII.

He’s coming every night on the hour and though you love him so, you find yourself unable to move from your bed at times.  You’re growing tired and time is slowing to something so tangible you feel that if you had the strength, you could reach out and grasp it, crushing its wings and never letting it leave.  He kisses you a lot more, pets you softly and tells you he loves you.

You can’t hear him over the white noise sometimes but it’s pleasant and you mutter terms of endearment right back until your eye rolls back into your head and you dream of your mother standing next to a cloaked figure with odd face paint and a weird little wave.

VIII.

You feel bile rip through your throat but there’s nothing for you to do but spit the tar and like the fire.

IX.

You don’t die immediately, cancer doesn’t work like that.  There’s something ironic about dying this way, you think, though you can’t quite place it.  It’s been inside your body for years, ever since you started seeing him every night.

You think that’s the reason he kept coming, because he knew, he could understand the white noise and he could know these things. 

X.

He isn’t there when you die.

XI.

But he’s there when you awake. 


	2. Black Noise

_“I had a dream last night that everyone was dying.  Subconsciously, I knew it was a lie.”_

I.

She’s very beautiful.  Her eyes are gems that sparkle in the right light, and apparently any contact with the sun was just the right light.  You liked that, you suppose.  Reminds you of the sweet young girl a few decades back, died in the back of the alley with her panties missing but had the most beautiful eyes.

She isn’t like that girl though; she is a mother with a family.  From what you gather two sons, a loving husband, half a dog and a black picket fence.  That’s how the saying goes, right?

They’re at the park, and she’s waiting by the street for her son.  She’s calling him.  The noise is unbearable but you haven’t caught a soul in some time and at this rate, you’ll end up wallowing in the black lagoon that is your brother’s shadow.  The thought is suffocating, so you wait beside her, let people pass right through you, and guess.  She’s by the road, so a car crash.  There’s no familiar ding, no blaring noise.  It’s wrong, you’re wrong.

Her son is on his way, and he nearly trips over himself.  He’s a frail looking thing, you think to yourself.  He looks breakable.  You trip him on his way again, pulling a branch out where it wasn’t and he nearly looks like he’s about to cry before beautiful eyes meet your own. 

“Who’s behind you?” 

You stop breathing.

Not that you needed to or anything.

The woman scorns her son for making stupid claims but you know better.  She’s in the hospital bed a few weeks later and you guess cancer and hear the beautiful silence of nothing next to her bed and know you’re right.  The boy kicks his feet from under him and looks at you.  He waves hesitantly.

You return it with a smile and a wave of your own.

II.

He’s growing up to be a fine young man.  Or, you think that’s what constitutes as a fine young member of society.  Your tie is crooked and you wish momentarily that you could ask him to fix it but he looks rather busy and all, not being able to hear you and crying in the shower.

You listen though, you always find yourself listening and it’s stressful because you’ve never really done much listening in your life, so when you do, it feels weird on your ears.  You can hear the faint white noise around him but it’s covered by the cracks in his tone and the small hiccups.

You want to tell him something important but you can’t figure what it is just yet.

III.

You don’t know when you started, but whenever he sleeps you tend to be there, in the room, that moment just when he’s half awake and he mumbles things he shouldn’t out loud.  He’s seventeen now, you’ve done the math, far too young to be worried about death, far too young for the baggage under his eyes.

Who are you to judge, though.

It’s not a question, but rather a statement.

IV.

Sometimes, for the hefty price that you find yourself not minding to pay, you communicate with him.  It’s never with words because that wastes  _time_  and you know how important that is, have held the hourglass for countless others and watch it slip away.

So you tell him stories with your lips, trace your tales on his skin and mutter the blessing of a prophet you don’t know.  He’s on fire, his lips burn and his eyes smoke and you think maybe he’d look even better draped in the finest clothes from down and under.  You wonder if he loves you or if he’s lonely.

It doesn’t matter as long as he replies to your stories with ones of his own.

V.

The white noise is irritating.

VI.

You want to swallow him up and keep him inside you, keep him to make you warm.  You want him to want you just as desperately.  You want him to look for you in a crowd, want him to see you behind the mirror and taste the despair on your lips, thick and heavy and nearly lost in your father’s grip. 

You think you might love him and it scares you.

VII.

The noise is there and he can hear it, always had the ability to hear it, is so special he can hear you.  It saddens you for some reason, but you’ll never admit it. 

You don’t sleep, but when you lie next to him, you like to pretend.  You dream of your home, of your father and your brother.  You dream of Karkat, his name long since memorized, and the dawn and the setting sun and the fear of bones.

You kiss him over and over but your lips never reach his skin.

VIII.

The noise is unbearable.

IX.

You feel stupid, slow as a leak, how could you not guess cancer.  It burns to watch him lie there, in bed with hallow eyes glazed over.  Even he can’t see you now and it bothers you, it irks you and lives you in ribbons of emotions that you haven’t touched in nearly forever. 

And you’ve known forever for a long time.

X.

He dies crying.

XI.

But he greets you with a smile so perfect. 


End file.
